


Bookman’s Holiday

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [3]
Category: Sherlock TV
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Medical School, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John’s summer plans go awry. And it is the best thing ever.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 25
Kudos: 100





	Bookman’s Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Another Postcard Tale! For those of you who missed my announcement, I have added another layer to these stories by trying to include one of the popular tropes in each one. Yeah, I’m a bit crazy. Anyway, the trope here is Library. I hope you think it works. Let me know, as comments are even more welcome in these days of isolation.

This was not how John had intended to spend the summer break from his medical studies. He’d actually had a job all lined up, at a coffee shop near the university, where he expected lots of socializing and new people to meet. It would be a nice break, making fancy coffee drinks instead of burying himself in thick medical tomes. And the cute redhead from his anatomy class, who had told him about the job opening in the first place, would be working the same shift.

It promised to be a very nice summer.

But all those grand plans came to an end with the phone call from his mother.

“Your poor Uncle Hamish broke his leg,” she said as soon as he answered the phone, skipping any of the pleasantries she usually insisted upon.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” John replied absently. Most of his attention was focused on juggling a pile of papers and trying to decipher his notes from the day’s physiology class.

He vaguely remembered an Uncle Hamish from a couple of visits years ago, before the divorce ended luxuries like holidays. The man lived in some remote corner of Scotland and did...something in the village. 

_Was that word endocrine_ or _endothelium_?

Mum was still talking. “—he can manage going to the library, of course, as he lives right there.”

Oh, right, he remembered suddenly, Uncle Hamish was the librarian in the village and had rooms on site. Very Victorian, John thought idly.

He frowned over his notes. _My handwriting is really dreadful. Good thing I’m going to be a doctor._

“...and that Miss Hoyle does his cleaning and cooking as usual.” Mum’s voice lowered and went a bit speculative. “I still think that woman has designs on him. After all these years, I wonder that she hasn’t moved on.”

“Not much choice around, is there?” John asked, not caring a whit. Then his pile of papers slipped and scattered on the floor. “Damn,” he muttered. Luckily, Mum was completely engaged in her own words and didn’t seem to notice.

“...so that is why I thought it would be a perfect solution and Hamish was delighted.”

“Umm,” John said, squatting and trying to organise the papers. Then something seemed to penetrate his brain. “What did you say, Mum?”

“I said that Hamish was delighted when I suggested that you could come up and operate the mobile library for him while he recuperates.”

“Me? But, Mum, I have a job already lined up and—”

“Oh, pish-posh, this will be much more interesting than making some silly and over-priced caramel vanilla with sprinkles thing.”

John was aware that he was whinging like a ten-year-old, but he couldn’t help it. “I really don’t want to go to bloody Scotland and be a librarian.”

“Watch your language, young man.” Mum sighed and he knew what was coming before she spoke. “Family is important, John.”

“Doesn’t he have some assistant? Can’t he do it?”

“Mr McCain is nearly eighty years old, for heaven’s sake. He can hardly drive a van around the county.”

He tried a couple more times to raise his perfectly valid objections, even knowing it would be futile. Mum was an indomitable force.

*

All of which explained why John Watson was spending his summer not making fancy designs in whipped cream and sprinkles, but instead driving a vintage [read barely operating] lime green Morris van around godforsaken corners of Scotland delivering library books. The van’s name was Lucille, for reasons he did not understand.

“The job is very easy,” Uncle Hamish assured him on day one. “Restock the shelves in Lucille for those folks who like to browse. Pull the requests people have given you. Then you get to spend the day driving around looking at the lovely scenery and chatting with nice people.”

That really was pretty much it. Four days a week, different route each day. There were plenty of chores for the other days, including time spent on the ancient computer, which sounded a bit like Lucille when it was powering up, trying to track down those requests not on hand. John was finishing that chore before hitting the road when one request caught his eye. “Who the hell is requesting something called _The Social Life of Poisons_?” he asked.

Uncle Hamish paused, then apparently decided to ignore the question, instead turning his wheelchair to retrieve a volume from his desk. “Oh, here it is. I forgot to put it in the pile earlier.”

John just looked at him.

“Well, you are going to enjoy Mr Holmes. A very interesting young man. Not local, of course. Up from London to spend some time in an old family place. About your age and very, very clever. The directions to his place are on the list with the others.” He smiled brightly, which put John on guard immediately.

“A very interesting person who likes to read about poison, apparently,” John muttered.

He took the book with him to the van, managed to get the engine running after only two attempts, and set off on the bone-rattling journey. Just before he left, Uncle Hamish finally decided to warn him that he would be in places with no mobile service. _Great. So if this bloody van breaks down I’m doomed._

His first stop was a tiny hamlet of only a dozen houses. Surprisingly, fifteen people were queuing when he pulled to a stop in front of what was apparently a shop, a post office, a petrol station and a doctor’s surgery, all in one building.

Everyone seemed very excited by his arrival.

Three elderly women crowded into the van at once, heading for the Romance shelf, as John passed out books to the others. Grisham. Asimov. Mary Berry’s Baking Bible. Some manga for a teenaged boy with purple hair and several piercings. John was amused to see that, despite the boy’s edgy appearance, the old ladies seemed to dote on him.

After the hamlet, he made several stops at isolated small farms. True to what he’d been told, everyone seemed very nice. They all asked after Uncle Hamish and told John what a good boy he was to help out.

Several people gave him carefully written out titles they would like, some specific to an author, others just asking for things like books about the American old west or cat mysteries.

One more hamlet, much like the first, and then he was on his way to the last stop of the day. It was the most isolated, tucked away inside a small glen. The house itself was a tidy stone cottage, surrounded by wildflowers. Peaceful. But John reminded himself, as he grabbed the book and got out of the van, that the person who lived here liked to read about poisons.

He approached the front door, heard music coming from inside, and so knocked loudly to be sure it was heard. The music continued for a moment, as if to reach the end, and only then stopped.

John had no idea what he was expecting this guy to look like. A pale, bespectacled nerd? A slimy criminal type? Who knew?

But what was revealed when the door opened was nothing he would even have contemplated.

Tall, thin, a bit pale, yes, but definitely not a nerd.

He was wearing perfectly tailored black trousers and a deep blue fitted shirt. The only concession to casualness was that his feet were bare. Dark curls gave him a certain swashbuckling air and John could not remember ever using that word to describe another person.

Still it could not be denied: Holmes swashbuckled.

The object of that description raised a brow at him.

“Mobile library,” John finally managed to say.

“Yes,” Holmes said. “It is unlikely that two vehicles of that hideous colour would be travelling the roads of Scotland. Or of anywhere, actually,” he added. It almost seemed as if his lips twitched, perhaps considering a smile.

“John Watson,” he said next.

The response came after a moment. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I have your book. _The Social Life of Poisons._ ”

“At last.” He looked expectantly at him, until finally John held out the book.

“You are interested in poisons, then?” John said.

“Apparently.” Surprisingly, Holmes stepped aside. “I have a couple of new requests. Come in.”

John stepped inside. The room looked rather like the hidden storage cupboard of an eccentric museum. Books, papers, laboratory equipment. What looked like a vintage sword. A violin. And a towering stack of newspapers that could be fatal if it ever toppled.“Was that you I heard playing?” John asked.

“Yes.” Holmes was shuffling through papers on a desk. Or at least John assumed that there was a desk somewhere under the pile of _stuff._

“Sorry,” John said, “could I use your loo?”

Holmes pointed, which John took as permission.

By the time he emerged, feeling much better, Holmes was in the kitchen. “I suppose it would be polite to offer you tea,” he said.

“Well, it would be very nice.”

Holmes sighed, as if the burden of even minimal hospitality was too much to bear. The kettle was already on, so he took two cups from the counter, peered inside, possibly to make sure they were clean, and proceeded to make them tea. When it was ready, they sat at the small table. “So,” Holmes said. “You are going to be a doctor.”

John took a sip of tea. “Uncle Hamish told you that?”

“Who?”

“Hamish Watson? The usual mobile library driver?” John said.

“Oh, no. We don’t talk much.”

“Then how did you know?”

Holmes shrugged. “I observed. Maybe you have a slight indentation on your neck from having a stethoscope hanging there. Or possibly you have the squint of a man who peers through a microscope often.” His lips twitched again. “Or perhaps I merely noticed that your tee shirt advertises your medical school.”

John felt like an idiot and he could feel heat in his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Poisons.”

“Problem?”

“Curious, is all.”

Holmes was looking at his cup, his long, slender fingers turning it around slowly. “Would you be happier if I were interested in something more...normal? Like why the sun goes around the earth?”

John blinked at him. “Holmes,” he started slowly.

“Sherlock,” came the correction.

“John.” He smiled, then returned to the topic. “You do know that the earth circulates around the sun, right?”

A shrug. “I actually have a professional interest in poison,” Sherlock said after a moment.

Sherlock looked pretty young to have any ‘profession’, in John’s opinion. “Oh, I assumed you were at uni or something.”

“I have first from Cambridge in chemistry,” Sherlock replied, sounding bored rather than proud as most people would.

“Wow. Impressive. So you’re a chemist with an interest in poisons. That makes sense.”

Sherlock shook his head, making the curls bounce a bit, which was nice. “I am a consulting detective with an interest in poisons.”

There was so much that John wanted to ask Sherlock Holmes, but a glance at his watch told him that if he did not leave, he would be very late getting back and Uncle Hamish would fret. He swallowed the last of his tea. “You had a book request?”

“I did.” Sherlock jumped up and went back to the desk, this time finding the piece of paper that he wanted.

John took it from him. “ _Washing Away of Wrongs_ by Song Ci,” he read aloud. “This might take some searching,” he warned.

“Originally written in 1247 and considered the first real book on forensic medicine.” Sherlock frowned. “If this place had wifi I could find it myself. Being stuck in the back of beyond is terribly inconvenient.”

And that remark just brought up more questions John was keen to ask. But he only smiled and promised to be back next week.

As he drove away, he glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway watching him go. For some reason, that fact warmed something deep inside John.

*

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Startled, John looked up from the computer. At least fifteen minutes ago, he had asked the old man, who made him think of Father Christmas in mufti, if he knew anything about the mobile library’s most interesting patron. But there had been no response, so he just got on with finishing the list of book requests. Finally, it seemed that Mr McCain was going to answer his question. John had seen Sherlock twice now and found himself rather...curious. Not obsessed, not at all. But there was nothing wrong with a little curiosity, was there? “Yes?” he said, keeping his tone casual.

“I am not one to gossip,” Mr McCain said.

If true, that made him a real oddity in the village.

“Mrs Hayden has a nephew who works for the police down in London. Not a cop, but he does something with computers. Anyway, he told her that the Holmes lad got into trouble over drugs. Arrested, but then some kind of a deal was worked out and he went to rehab instead of jail. Then his brother had him shipped up here for a time, to keep him out of more trouble.”

Sherlock Holmes a druggie? John thought about those oddly coloured and all-knowing eyes, the rapier quick wit, the almost frightening intelligence. None of it seemed to fit with the idea of him being an addict.

“The family hasn’t been up here in years, but they were always a bit odd.”

John shut down the computer and stood. “Oh, well, he seems fine now.” Ignoring the skeptical look on the plump, bearded face, he picked up the pile of books and headed for the van.

*

There was a note taped to the door of the stone cottage.

_John,_  
Come around to the back garden.  
SH 

Curious, John tucked the two books he was carrying under his arm and walked around the cottage. Set back from the house, surrounded by even more wildflowers, he saw what looked like a beehive. Standing next to it, wearing a jacket that seemed to have a hat and veil attached and gloves, was the slender figure of Sherlock Holmes. He gave no indication of realising that he had a visitor and John stopped where he was.

It took Sherlock about five minutes to finish his task. Then he moved carefully away and walked over to John, unsnapping and unzipping to remove the jacket, hat and gloves. He ran a hand through the disheveled curls. “Well,” John said, “now I know why you wanted this book.” He held out the copy of _ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture._ “From 1913. Took a bit of searching.”

Sherlock took the book and forgot to say thank you.

John held out a second book. “This wasn’t on your list, but I saw it and thought maybe you might enjoy it as well.” 

“ _Corpse: Nature, Forensics and the Struggle to Pinpoint Time of Death,_ ” Sherlock read aloud. He blinked at John for a moment. “Well...good,” he said. “No doubt tea is required.” He turned around quickly and strode into the cottage.

John followed. He supposed he ought to be a bit annoyed that all of his efforts did not even warrant a thank-you, but realised that he really wasn’t. The truth was that he found Sherlock Holmes to be an entirely fascinating person, unlike anyone he had ever met. He wanted to know him better.

Perhaps he wanted to know him better than he had ever known anyone. At least it seemed so, judging by the dreams he was having. But this was not the time to think about them.

John sighed and walked into the kitchen. 

Sherlock actually set a tin of chocolate biscuits on the table. “Thought perhaps you might...” Then he just gave a careless wave of one hand.

John hid the smile that threatened to emerge. God forbid the git was caught doing something nice for someone. At the same time, it was difficult not to wonder if the fact that Sherlock was doing something nice for _him_ meant something.

When the tea was ready, Sherlock joined him at the table. Abruptly the grey-green eyes seemed to survey John. “Someone told you why I’m here,” he said flatly.

There was a moment, as John sorted through the words that might be said. In the end, he just shrugged. “We all have issues,” he said.

Sherlock was still looking at him. “Oh, you worry that the alcoholism in your family might be a problem for you.”

John’s mouth went dry.

Sherlock looked as if he regretted his words. Then he took a breath. “I think you are too strong for that to happen to you,” he said, possibly by way of an apology.

“Thank you,” John said quietly.

They ate biscuits and drank tea. After a handful of visits, it already felt so natural to John that they should be sitting together like this. Which was both wonderful and terrifying.

“So, this consulting detective gig,” John said. “What, exactly, is that?”

“When the police are out of their depth, which is quite often, they come to me.”

John tried not to seem too skeptical. Apparently he failed in that attempt, because Sherlock looked offended. “Tell me about it,” he said, in an effort to placate.

“There was a murder,” Sherlock started, then paused. “Part of this story may not reflect well on me,” he said delicately.

John, oddly, almost reached out to...what? Pat Sherlock’s hand? Ridiculous. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“Very late one night, I was walking around London. Shoreditch, specifically, looking for an independent businessman of my acquaintance.”

John had a feeling that they needed to begin as they meant to go on [whatever that meant] so probably honesty was necessary. And he wanted to prove that it really didn’t matter. “A dealer,” he said, without passing any judgement.

Sherlock didn’t quite nod. “Anyway, I was passing a cul de sac when I noticed police tape. Perhaps had I been thinking a bit more clearly, given my condition, I would have avoided the crime scene, but...” He was absently crumbling a biscuit. “Anyway, how the idiots from the Yard missed the man watching them from the fire escape I have no idea. They were all gathered around, staring at the woman’s body or looking for ‘clues’ on the ground. Obviously the man I saw was the killer.”

“How did you know?”

“Something in the way he wore the ridiculous bowler hat. And his shoes.” Sherlock shrugged. “I just knew. There was an officer not far away, so I walked over and tried to tell her about the man. But all she cared about was that I had stepped over the tape. When she took a good look at me, she decided I was high.”

“Which you were,” John pointed out mildly.

“Only a little. Anyway, she was an idiot, who decided to out me to her sergeant. I had other plans. When she turned her back, I ran over to the fire escape and started climbing. The man in the hat saw me and headed higher. We ended up on the roof. He had the advantage of a knife.”

“And not being high?”

“Possibly. Nevertheless, I still think I would have gotten the best of him. I was really in no danger of being thrown off the building, despite what that sergeant insisted when he finally got up there. He and that idiot woman pulled the man off me. Took him in on suspicion and me on drug charges.”

John finished his tea and tried not to look at the clock. “Not seeing how all of this leads to your career as a consulting detective, though.”

“Well, it didn’t immediately. But I started solving cases in the papers and sending the solutions to Lestrade, the sergeant I’d met. Usually he ignored me, but sometimes he had the intelligence to listen.” Sherlock stood suddenly, taking their cups to the sink. “I was still bored, though. And one night I made a slight miscalculation. Lestrade chose that night to turn up at my flat.” He was not looking at John. “Seems he saved my life. When he came to see me in the hospital, he said if I stayed clean he would send me some cold cases to work on.”

“Ahh,” John said. He was remembering what Mr McCain had said about Sherlock’s trouble with the law and the rehab.

With a glance, Sherlock seemed to read him. “The idea of sobriety had not really taken hold yet and so I was in a drug house when there was a raid. Ended up in the cells. My obnoxious brother worked his magic and got me into rehab. And then he banished me here for an unspecified period of time.”

“Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective in Exile,” John said. He waved a hand in the direction of the towering pile of papers. “Still solving cases, then?”

“The papers are delivered once a week, along with everything else. My brother is very efficient.”

“But you’ll be going back to London eventually?” John said, hopefully.

“Of course.”

John stood. “Maybe we might meet up there, do you think?’ His tone was awkward, he knew, but it felt important to find out if there were any chance that the end of summer would not mean an end to this...whatever it was.

Sherlock turned around and leant against the counter, crossing his arms. He looked curious. “You would like that?”

Well, now John felt really stupid. Like he was back in grammar school, trying to find out if Mary Ellen or Joshua [he was an equal opportunity romantic] liked him. He only nodded.

“Good,” Sherlock said. That was all he said, but for the moment, it was enough. To John it was everything.

They smiled at one another.

*

It was four months later when John showed up on Baker Street.

A very nice older woman let him in. “Sorry to just point and dash,” she said, donning a flowered cardigan. “But I’m having tea with Mrs Turner and she is a stickler for punctuality. He’s up there.”

For some reason, John counted the steps as he climbed up.

Seventeen.

He made a note of that, as if it mattered.

The door was open, but he paused on the threshold anyway. “Sherlock?” he said.

“Come in, John.”

He stepped into the room, which was as cluttered as the cottage in Scotland had been, a fact that was somehow reassuring. Sherlock was at the counter, a microscope in front of him. “Hi,” John said. “You look well.” Actually, he looked much better than ‘well’. His face had lost the underlying gauntness and the curls were slightly tamed, although still with the promise of swashbuckling if the opportunity arose.

Sherlock scowled. “Apparently I have been deemed fit to rejoin society.” Then his expression softened just a bit. “I’m fine, John.”

“That’s good. I like your place. A good location. Must be expensive.”

“Hudders gives me a break on the rent. I leant her a hand when her husband was on death row in Florida.”

“You stopped his execution?”

Sherlock smiled; it was not a reassuring look. “Oh, no, I assured it.” Then he gestured at the microscope. “I just need to check one more thing. Why don’t you make us some tea?”

Despite the clutter in the kitchen, John managed to find kettle, tea, cups, sugar.

“No milk, I’m afraid,” Sherlock mumbled, his eye pressed to the microscope. “Forgot.”

Just as John set two cups of tea on the counter and pulled the second stool closer, Sherlock made a sound of apparent satisfaction. “I knew it. The brother did it.”

“You going to tell that sergeant?”

“Eventually. He has been very slow to bring me interesting cases, so let him sweat a bit. There is a second bedroom upstairs, you know,” Sherlock said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Is there?”

“You hate your current place.”

John opened his mouth to object, but then realised that any argument he could put forth would be flimsy. Not least because he really thought the idea of sharing space with Sherlock Holmes was brilliant.

Before either of them could speak again, Sherlock’s phone squawked. He lifted it to read a text and then jumped to his feet. “Finally! A body found in the mummy room of the British Museum! Wrapped up in linen strips!”

Should one sound quite that delighted over the death of a fellow human? John thought probably not and that as an almost-doctor, he should object. But the expression on Sherlock’s face as he grabbed a long dark coat from a hook was so...happy. It would have seemed churlish to protest. As for John himself, he felt rather extraneous to need, so he shoved both hands into his pockets. “Okay, guess I’ll just—”

Sherlock already halfway out the door, paused and shot him an impatient glance. “Don’t just stand there, John! The game is on!”

After one moment, John grinned at him.

Then he followed Sherlock Holmes down those seventeen steps and out into an entirely new London.

**

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Bookman’s Holiday by Holbrook Jackson


End file.
